


Having A Ball

by dzemaeldarkhold (deumion)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Fluff, Gift Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-07 18:43:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6819709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deumion/pseuds/dzemaeldarkhold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the Azure Dragoon does not attend balls. (gift fic)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Having A Ball

**Author's Note:**

> A gift for sildih@tumblr, because she's been having a rough time and deserves elf boyfriends.

 

Estinien did not attend balls, and Aymeric knew this. In their particular blend of art (the culinary, the decorative, the musical, the performative—dear Halone, the performative: the art of etiquette, conversation, insinuation, compliment, compromise…) he seemed even more ungainly than usual, a grounded and irritable gyrfalcon, full of resentment for his anklets and jesses and wanting nothing more than to be free to ride the wind and hunt once more. It was a relief to both of them when the attempts to invite him finally dried up: Estinien no longer had to repeatedly decline them, Aymeric no longer had to give politic explanations at the event itself as to why the Azure Dragoon wasn’t there.

 

But, this also meant that when Aymeric was having his foot stepped on again by someone too eager to impress with most current dances to have actually learned them, when he was cautiously pretending to have a better palate for distinguishing wine varieties than he actually did when hobnobbing with the lords de Dzemael, when the utterly ancient Countess de Durendaire was recounting the story of her first great-grandchild’s birth for the fifth time that evening and just as expectant of his rapt attention as if it were the first—it made it that much harder to daydream about Estinien interceding to rescue him from his tribulations.

 

Though, of course—knowing Estinien, and knowing Estinien’s luck, and knowing especially his _own_ luck, likely he’d only intercede to get Aymeric to head off some ardent admirer, or to petition for an excuse to leave early, or because he was actually dying of boredom, or—

 

“And her afterb—oh! Oh, heavens, Aymeric—“ Stooped Countess Durendaire quickly abandoned attempts to peer over his shoulder to peek around his hips. “I do believe that young man is going to kill someone!”

 

Her voice managed to hit the precise volume and pitch to break through a lull in the general conversation—so the crowd turned with Aymeric, turned as one to see a the back of a compact elezen man, in ill-fitting work clothes, stealing up on a knot of tipsy ladies de Haillenarte with knife drawn. Aymeric acted instantly—he lunged for this man, knocking the hand holding the knife aside and pushing him down. But—he was stronger than he had looked, and was twisting around even as Aymeric tried to tighten his hold, and get that knife out of his hands before he was in a position to use it. Around them the heels of fine shoes were clattering as the guests backed away, but even now Aymeric could hear loudening jingles of Temple Knight mail—all he had to do was hold this squirming heretic still enough and safe enough for a few more seconds.

 

“Damn you, Aymeric!” …That said struggling heretic would swear angrily at him didn’t startle Aymeric, that he would use his first name did. “Get _off_!” And, Aymeric realized, he recognized that voice.

 

“Estinien…?” Incredulous, Aymeric let his captive turn over enough to see his face, and was greeted with what was unmistakably Estinien’s angry scowl, immediately followed by Estinien’s elbow in his solar plexus. His strength leaving along with his breath, Aymeric’s grip loosened and Estinien twisted out of it. Instead of standing and going for his knife again, though, he turned on the floor just enough to sweep his long legs along it—and catch the ankles of the maidservant who’d been waiting on the ladies he’d been stalking.

 

With a cry, her legs were out from under her, her tray of delicate champagne flutes smashing to the floor and shattering—but more than that, from her opposite hand, a vial of much sturdier glass arced up in the view of all before crashing to the tile, breaking with a lower-toned crash and a liquid much redder spilling over the ballroom floor.

 

The crowd gasped as one, and the responding Temple Knights now found their duty to be trying to contain rising panic. One tried to help a coughing Aymeric stand, but he pushed him away. “The maid,” Aymeric said hoarsely, pointing in her direction. “Detain her.” Though his tone and his gaze were as hard as any heretic deserved, he wasn’t looking at her. “I’ll speak with _him_.”

 

Estinien, now that the dragon’s-blood threat was powerlessly puddling on the floor, appeared quite pleased with himself—casually adjusting his ridiculous shirt and slops, and even giving the maid a last taunting smirk before turning his attention to Aymeric. “Well,” he began, clearly expecting to be complimented, “interference aside, it was nonetheless successful. …Isn’t that so, Aymeric?” Estinien prompted when Aymeric remained silent—then “Aymeric? …What?” when, without a word and barely making eye contact, Aymeric took Estinien roughly by the shoulder and walked him out of the ballroom and to a quieter hall.

 

“Aymeric, wha—“

 

“What did you think you were doing?!” Aymeric demanded, voice low but still vehement.

 

“Stopping a _heretic_ ,” Estinien said, his surprise vanishing and bemusement turning to offense, “from _killing people_ , ser.”

 

“Why were you acting alone? Why didn’t you tell any of my knights what you planned? Or me?”

 

“Because I could handle it alone. I _did_ handle it alone.” Estinien’s expression grew steadily stonier.

 

“And in—I have to assume this is some kind of disguise. Do you think you’re an Inquisitor now? I—Fury’s truth, Estinien,” Aymeric sighed, aggravated, “ _why_?”

 

“Everything ended well enough. I don’t see why you’re making such a fuss.” Estinien stubbornly refused to answer Aymeric’s questions, only voicing sullenness.

 

“Because _I_ thought _you_ were some kind of madman!” Aymeric’s voice was no longer low, and his anger with Estinien no longer politic. “We could have injured you, we might have killed you! How could you have been so reckless?”

 

Now well and truly affronted, Estinien pushed Aymeric’s hand off his shoulder. “I got the tip, I acted, I saved your people the trouble.” Scowling, he turned aside and folded his arms, leaning against the wall. “I thought it would be appreciated.”

 

Now that Estinien’s back was to him, Aymeric rolled his eyes, exasperated. “I do not _appreciate_ your recklessness endangering yourself and others.”

 

Estinien turned back to face him, possibly because he felt his own, more dramatic eye-rolling deserved an audience. “I thought I could stop the heretic, get rid of the blood, and not disrupt your party. …And leave before anyone recognized me and made me stay.”

 

Aymeric blinked once, eyebrows raised. “So… this was your idea of a favor?” Then again, Aymeric knew, if there was one person in all of Ishgard who would consider an unplanned armed military operation in the middle of a ball to be a favor to anyone—it would be him.

 

“Yes.” Estinien was obviously (and uncomfortably) torn between emphasizing the word to rub in how long it had taken Aymeric to grasp this, and the appearance (and the safety) of aloofness.

 

“If you want to do me a favor,” Aymeric began, in a measured tone, “Next time, leave the weapons at the door, attend in clothes that actually fit, and let me have the first dance.” By the time he finished, he wore the unique and distinctly mirthful expression of a person trying to appear as anything but, with more than a little sly mischief in his tone.

 

“I thought you _liked_ balls,” Estinien said slowly, but with a little smile of his own. “Am I needed to rescue you even here?”

 

“For ever and always.” And perhaps it was more than a little silly to say—Aymeric being who he was—but if it made him so, then Aymeric did not mind at all.

 

“Ridiculous,” Estinien murmured, just as he leaned in close to Aymeric—and Aymeric, if he minded being so called by the Azure Dragoon, didn’t mind enough not to kiss back, quiet, serene, peaceful—and with a depth of longing few pegged him as the type to feel.

 

“You had better escape,” Aymeric whispered, when Estinien would let him form the words. “Any longer, and they really will make you stay.”

 

“Halone preserve me, I’d—mm—I’d die of boredom.” He lingered for only a moment—just long enough to ensure the fondness of his touch and warmth of his breath would linger much longer on Aymeric’s cheek and ear—and then he was gone, retreating further down the hallway while Aymeric turned back to the ballroom. By now, Aymeric could compose himself and put the “friendly diplomat” face back on quite quickly, and when he re-entered the party it was with a broad smile and an apologetic bow to the Countess de Durendaire—first person he saw, and looking a little lost.

 

“Terribly sorry, my lady,” Aymeric said, offering her his arm. “Rather more excitement than I had planned for.”

 

“Quite alright, young man, quite alright. They all blend together otherwise,” she said, taking his arm and starting to lead him in the approximate direction of the nearest trays of drinks and hors d’oeuvres. “If you must apologize, I’ll take the second dance at the next ball. Now, as I was telling you, my Evie’s first day in the seminary…”


End file.
